The Attic

Eleven

            “Canada. Why in bloody fucking hell are we in Canada?”

            John looked at Paul, who was spewing a string of profanity, amused by the seemingly sweet Paul’s display. They’d loaded him up with all sorts of numbing things for the trip there, and it was obviously making him a bit loopy.

            He was still in his wheelchair, despite many mumbled protests that “I can walk on my own bloody legs, damn it.”

            John picked up the cardboard box from the back of the van and put it under one arm, the other settling on a handlebar of the wheelchair.

            John started wheeling Paul away while the driver that had gotten them to their hideout gave him a pitying glance, perhaps having gotten a bad impression of McCartney is his current drug-addled state. Paul sagged and waited while John inserted his key into the door, pushing it open hesitantly.

            The inside proved what the outside showed; this was a tiny little shack with not much to boast. A plain, rustic interior showed a living room, with a sturdy wooden table, a cozy but faded rug between a darkened fireplace and a squashy green couch, and John peeked into a hallway leading to two small rooms that seemed to contain only beds.

            “There’s a kitchen and a bathroom,” John said, partly informing Paul and partly reassuring himself.

            Paul sighed. “I’m really tired…” he mumbled.

            “That’s normal,” John said. “Here, you can kip while I sort through the police’s instructions…”

            John pulled Paul up from the wheelchair and onto the couch. This hadn’t been the first time he’d touched Paul; not even the first time in the past few days, but he couldn’t help but feel a slight shiver and a wave of tingling nerves traveling to his fingertips, as he was suddenly painfully aware of Paul’s weight on his arms, and the muscles of his back he could feel, even through the jumper he was wearing. John set him down and his fingers grazed over a bumpier area in his shoulder, thick with bandaging.

*   *   *

            Paul woke up next to a roaring fire, underneath a blanket, which combined with his fuzzy, Macca sheep’s wool jumper made him sweat like a pig. Paul pulled the blanket off him and pushed back the damp hair from the back of his neck, looking around and remembering where he was.

            Beyond the crackling of the flames, Paul could hear the gentle plucking and strumming that was an acoustic guitar. Paul closed his eyes. The measured playing but the slightly impatient lilts in the pulse were telltale. Paul would know that playing anywhere.

            “John?”

            His voice was sore and it cracked slightly, just like it’d been when he was fifteen, meeting John for the first time and hoping he hadn’t heard that little squeak marring his otherwise good impersonation of Eddie Cochran.